"Now, look out, boys!" says one, "Old _Tanty's_ about to wake up!" and then some dozen of the upper story lodgers, who had kept their peepers open to enjoy the fun, began to spread around and pull away the loose straw in order to get a view of the scene below. Sure enough, the old rooster gave a long yawn--"Aw-w-w-w-_um!_" flirted off his "kiverlids"

and got up, making a slow move towards the fire-place, reaching which, he gave an extra "Aw-w-w-_um!_" knocked the ashes out of his pipe--filled it up with "n.i.g.g.e.r-head," dipped it in the embers, gave it a few whiffs, and then said:

"Booh! cold mornin'; boys'll freeze, if I don't start up a good fire."

Then he went to work to cultivate a blaze, with a few chips and light sticks of dry wood.

"Ah, by George, old feller," says one, "you'll catch a bite, before you know it!"

"Yes, I'm blamed if you ain't a _goner_, Old Tantabolus!" says another, in a pig's whisper.

"There! there he's got the fire up--now look out!"

"He's got the stick--"

"Goin' to clap it on!"

"Now it's on!"

"Look out for fun, by George, look out!"

"He'll blow the house up!"

"G.o.dfrey! s'pose he does?"

"What an infernal _wind_ there is this morning!" says the old fellow, hearing the _buzz_ and indistinct whispering overhead; "guess it's snowin' like _sin_; I'll jist start up this fire and go out and see."

But, he had scarcely reached and opened the door, when--"_bang-g-g!_"

went the log, with the roar of a twelve pounder; hurling the fire, not only all over the lower floor, but through the upper loose flooring--setting the straw beds in a blaze--filling the house with smoke, ashes and fire! There was a general and indiscriminate _rush_ of the practical jokers in the loft, to make an escape from the now burning building; but the step-ladder was knocked down, and it was at the peril of their lives, that all hands jumped and crawled out of the _ranche!_ The only one who escaped the real danger was Old Tantabolus, the intended victim, whose remark was, after the flurry was over--"Boys, arter this, _be careful how you lay your powder round!_"

An Active Settlement.

Gen. Houston lives, when at home, at Huntsville, Texas; the inhabitants mostly live, says Humboldt, Beeswax, Borax, or some of the other historians, by hunting. The wolves act as watchmen at night, relieved now and then by the Ingins, who make the wig business brisk by relieving straggling citizens of their top-knots. A man engaged in a quiet smoke, sees a deer or bear sneaking around, and by taking down his rifle, has steaks for breakfast, and a haunch for next day's dinner, right at his door. Vegetables and fruit grow naturally; flowers come up and bloom spontaneously. The distinguished citizens wear buck-skin trowsers, c.o.o.n-skin hats, buffalo-skin overcoats, and alligator-hide boots. Old San Jacinto walked into the Senate last winter--fresh from home--with a panther-skin vest, and bear-skin breeches on! Great country, that Texas.

A Yankee in a Pork-house

"Conscience sakes! but hain't they got a lot of pork here?" said a looker-on in Quincy Market, t'other day.

"Pork!" echoes a decidedly _Green_ Mountain biped, at the elbow of the first speaker.

"Yes, I vow it's quite as-_tonishing_ how much pork is sold here and _et_ up by somebody," continued the old gent.

"Et up?" says the other, whose physical structure somewhat resembled a fat lath, and whose general _contour_ made it self-evident that _he_ was not given much to frivolity, jauntily-fitting coats and breeches, or perfumed and "fixed up" barberality extravagance.

"Et up!" he thoughtfully and earnestly repeated, as his hands rested in the cavity of his trousers pockets, and his eyes rested upon the first speaker.

"You wern't never in Cincinnatty, _I_ guess?"

"No, I never was," says the old gent.

"Never was? Well, I cal'lated not. Never been _in_ a Pork-haouse?"

"Never, unless you may call this a Pork-house?"

"The-is? Pork-haouse?" says Yankee. "Well, I reckon not--don't begin--'tain't nothin' like--not a speck in a puddle to a Pork-haouse--a Cincinnatty Pork-haouse!"

"I've hearn that they carry on the Pork business pooty stiff, out there," says the old gentleman.

"Pooty stiff? Good gravy, but don't they? 'Pears to me, I knew yeou somewhere?" says our Yankee.

"You might," cautiously answers the old gent.

"'Tain't 'Squire Smith, of Maoun-Peelier?"

"N'no, my name's Johnson, sir."

"Johnson? Oh, in the tin business?"

"Oh, no, I'm not _in_ business, at all, sir," was the reply.

"Not? Oh,"--thoughtfully echoes Yankee. "Wall, no matter, I thought p'raps yeou were from up aour way--I'm from near Maoun-Peelier--State of Varmount."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Ya-a-s."

"Fine country, I'm told?" says the old gent.

"Ye-a-a-s, 'tis;"--was the abstracted response of Yankee, who seemed to be revolving something in his own mind.

"Raise a great deal of wool--fine sheep country?"

"'Tis great on sheep. But sheep ain't nothin' to the everlasting hog craop!"

"Think not, eh?" said the old gent.

"I swow _teu_ pucker, if I hain't seen more hogs killed, afore breakfast, in Cincinnatty, than would burst this buildin' clean open!"

"You don't tell me so?"

"By gravy, I deu, though. You hain't never been in Cincinnatty?"

"I said not."